The Vessel
by IncompetantDreamer
Summary: After the battle is over in the Alley - the 'God-King' is not particularly satisfied. What if she empowered and crafted a 'vessel' to sail backwards in time and change things? What if that 'Vessel' was Spike? 'Post-Chosen. Post-NFA.'
1. Prologue: All Our Heroes are Gone

Author: IncompetantDreamer

Rating: M (No Sex, 'cuz I'm horrible at writing it, yet there will be strong descriptions of violence and adult subject matter)

Timeline: Post-Chosen, Post-Not Fade Away, AU from Season 3 on going through Season 7.

Disclaimer: I own nothing, that's for certain. Nothing I write about is for profit or to slight any of the established characters. They are property of Joss Whedon, ME and whomever else can legally claim right. I'm a broke, starving salesman. If you sue me, you can have my shoelace.

PROLOGUE

At the end of the world, after all ashes and dust have gone their separate way, what's left?

It's assumable only a cockroach could know. You know what they say about assumptions though...

Sometimes they come back to bleedin' bite you in the ass.

'Urgh...' A slight moan is audible underneath a grayish, plumed sky. Seems inverted somehow, colorful and vibrant, yet the ambience is utterly halted and brought back to reality through the decadent smell of death within the small, corkbottled alley.

It is so... pungent, at that.

Not to be surprising however, when littered across the strips and on the streets, throughout buildings and... what is seemingly, everywhere, lies smoking carcass. With only one left standing in the midst of such destruction.

You'd expect sirens to blare, rescue missions or something else to still have some type of... resonance, after all is said and done. Guess those cockroaches didn't have shit on the God-King of the Primordium.

Illyria - sole combatant, left standing. Sole reason why earth and it's plain was not currently over-run by a viciously pissed off horde of demons at the beck and call of the Wolf, Ram and Hart. Her brilliantly blue hair is streaked crimson, bits of marrow and flesh mar every square inch of her compact, lithe form. The veins in her face now seem a road map to death as they wilt away from her cold, unyielding eyes. It does not escape mention though - that the spine of the last enemy standing, was within her grip, it's dead, demonic owner at her feet.

Eyes which close slightly as her lips unleash a victory cry the likes of which the world has not heard in many eons.

The booming shout echoes throughout the alley, throughout the world, it seems.

The grunt from before makes quite another muffled sound, as if some caged animal has been injured. Probably an accurate description.

The 'Maker of Things', shuffles on her feet for a moment, seemingly coming out of her reverie. As she meanders through the wreckage of bodies,  
she listens intently, honing in on the sound. After but a few moments, she has found her way into the 'pile.' It's where she was forced, through sheer practicality to toss her dead enemies. The pile was nearly four stories tall and just as wide. It is a mountain of flesh and limbs.

AIt is looking at this bloated pile of membranes that the battle came back unto her mind. It was a vicious battle, one worthy of her contribution. Should one call it a contribution when there is not much or whom to contribute to? We see Illyria's shoulders visibly slacken as she takes what is most likely an unneeded breath. Yes indeed, a war happened in this alley. There were not two armies, however. Only one - only one, squirming, marching army full to the hilt of lusting, blood-thirsty demons and their opposition? A dying man whom could barely stand and two 'enlightened' vampires. Not nearly the makings of an Army, not a Batallian - no, this was more of a weakened unit, with which she had to helm.

tThe one they'd called 'Gunn', had lived a warrior's life and been given the gift of such. He haphazardly charged the enemy himself, along with all of them, managing to slay a great many demons before his life's blood flew outward from him. Dying and taking his last breath, he'd managed to slam two daggers into the two demons toppling him, taking his enemies to the afterlife - along for the ride. She had not known him well, however in thos final moments he revealed and starkness of dignity that could not be ignored. It stuck out among the thousands of dead here, now. He was what they would call so dutifully,  
a 'Hero.'

Her Wesley was gone before battle commenced - his mission fulfilled. The 'shell' had loved him - so had she. It was mostly through this that her anger was sparked and vengeance was needed. Illyria was exhausted and for a 'God-King' that was saying quite something. They took her love - she took... all of them.

Not without the help of the vampires, however. The two aged, brilliant fighters were a sight to see, she would bear nod to. They moved as if they were fluid death. Angel, still empowered by the blood flowing through his veins, was more then a formidable alley. He may have been a greater contribution in battle however, if he had not been so adamant as to 'slay the Dragon.' No mere thing Angel had done - yet it cost him dearly. He had first charged the enemy,  
taking out dozens of vampires as he scaled the nearest building. His timing had been precise yet deadly. He had catapulted himself unto the flying beast and with many a vicious strike - toppled into the ground, killing quite a few demons, along the way.

Yet what it had done had stranded him within the enemy camp. Far too embedded was he - he fought for hours. He was Death, beholden. He must have fought for his world, for his soul - for his ison./i And his Son, did come. He came, Connor did. He entered the fray as Illyria and Spike smashed enemies into the ground with great joy. He flew into the enemy encampment and fought for all his superhuman ability to get to his father. Yet, it was not to be. Eventually, after many hundreds of demons were viciously killed by Angel, he was succumb through sheer exhaustion of bone and cramping. He had fought for a thousand man's worth, yet no man is Armada. Only... Illyria can be.

She thinks idly, as she plucks her way through the, 'pile', that he would have been her greatest General. He certainly embed a respect into her that convinced her he would be able to bend his men's eyes downward and lead them to certain death. As he had - as his 'men' did so willingly. Yet, they were all gone. All of them and everything, at this - the end of the world.

Connor had fought his way only to see his Angel, die. The grief had eventually overwhelmed young Connor and the 'God-King' knew not of his exodus.

The other vampire though - her 'pet', he was something angelic in the battle himself. She understood that throughout history he had been known as 'the Bloody.' He had earned that name ten-thousand fold this battle. He cut a swathe of death beside Illyria, taking on the back end of the battle, himself alone. He feasted off the demons he could, in-between mauling them. It seemed to have a maniacal,vicious advantage. Spike seemed to have grown stronger and more confident as the battle wore on - as if the mere certainity of death only encouraged him to fight that slight degree harder.

Eventually, Illyria had lost sight of her 'pet.' He had been somehow left behind amidst the carnage as it neared it's end. She had noted a brutal strike to his leg from a club held by a Polgash demon, before she had lost sight of him, as she neatly built the 'pile.' She had assumed he had died, as well.

... there's that assumption thing again though, isn't there?

'BLOOOOOOOOODY HELL!!!!!!!!" A thunderous, booming roar is heard from the pile. No, make that - from WITHIN the pile. As she had loosened bodies from it;s grasp in order to meet the mewling noise, she had been shocked.

Apparently, a huge crevice had formed from under the mountain of bodies. She had effectively, buried Spike alive with enemies, as she killed them so efficiently. Caged him with limps and dying demons.

As she peels one dead limb away from the pile, it reveals a startling pair of blood stained, electrically blue eyes, steeling towards her.

"Blue, we're gonna' have some bleedin' words..." Spike revealed, as he began to crawl his way out from underneath the bodies.

The 'God-King' of the primordium was naught but a stone, unturned. Thousands were dead, the city was destroyed - yet they were victors, She and her 'pet.'

The only ones, it seemed.

After having brushed himself off, Spike leaned against the pile, deftly produced a fine, full-flavored cigarette from his 'new' duster and slowly, blissfully took a puff.

"So, 'ow many are we down?" He asked, not truly wanting an answer. Having survived the 'Pit of the Smurf's Unending Rage' as he had so come to call it,  
he knew that if she and himself were the only ones left standing - chances were from good.

'You are the only one whom has survived the slaugther, all our allies are dead." The despondent, detatched voice of the 'God-King' intoned.

The cigarette still clutched in his hand, fell silently to the ground.

The downcast eyes of Spike were all that greeted her. He took a walk forward, towards Illyria.

"That's the way it's 'otta be then? That's 'ow it is... that's how it's gotta be....alright, alright...." So Spike, walked... and he struggled, then after a moment, he fell to his knees, feeling for all the world - that he had somehow died himself and been cast into this - that which could so effectively be considered Hell.

Then, the greatest moment in human history - as it would later become called - transpired. The 'God-King' shed a tear.

Before it hit the ground - within fractions of moments - a million thoughts had rushed through her head. Most prominently - the fact that she was the 'God-King,  
and nothing... absolutely nothing, within this world could cuse her dismay. Dismay had been caused to - for her 'pet', seemed broken, fetal on the ground. Her ... friends? No, wait... and at this precise moment - Illyria knew that her shell still survived, or it least it had. For as the greatest invasion of the 'God-King' ever conceived of - the one known as Winifred Burkle - from deep within the well of Illyria's mind, shouted out valiantly.

"YOU CAN CHANGE IT! YOU CAN CHANGE IT ALL! THE UNIVERSE AS IT YOUR WHIM! YOU KNOW WHAT MUST BE DONE!" So, she did.

She could annihilate all of her pains and those of others. She could take back many thousands of lives which hadn't need end, here and today. To take the flow of the universe and time it's very self within her grip and give it a slow, nurturing twist. For her, as easy as slicing a piece of bread. Life and death had no chains to bind her. As she was the Alpha - the Maker - she held sway at the end of days.

This was NOT to be that day.

She would wind the foul hands of time backward until they bent and broke. She would yield herself towards the universe in the only way she knew how - she would 'craft a vessel.'

One that would have enough fortitude and power to sail along the current of time. One that could carry her intentions backwards and implement the change she desired. She knew what must be done.

Then her tears hit the ground - at the same moment she appeared before Spike.

"Love, not the time. I'm bleedin' exhausted and everyone is bloody dead. Need a moment to... to grieve, or such somewh---" As Illyria's hands overcame his shoulders,  
she spoke to him.

"It is not time for grief, vampire. It is time for changing. This result is not compatible with my desires. I wish to change it." She responded, as her grip on Spike, held him in place.

Spike wasn't sure he was ready for this - to have such a timid talk of things.

"Quaint, love. Not much to change, though? They're all gone, dead. Probably in soddin' Heaven or somewhat, so best to let it be. Let it be." He said, his sad blue eyes roaming over Illyria's.

With that, Illyria seemed to faintly glow from a moment, her hairs standing and floating above her head.

"I AM THE GOD-KING OF THE PRIMORDIUM! I LET NOTHING BE!!!!!" Her voice had such resonance that the skies blackened overheard and Spike himself, felt his entire being blown backwards from the strength of her gale force winds! He was tumbling through space and his entire being felt as if it was being electrocuted from beneath his flesh. Not even burning to a crisp with the First, felt anything resembling as he did now.

Time, as it was - is, or will be - fickle thing.

Illyria pushed her essence into her 'pet.' Into the 'Bloody.' Merged all her powers and strengt into 'crafting' that vessel. Making it strong enough to be a bringer of change and act as her mantle in the past - as it was to be.

Suddenly, a great hole in time ripped open above the streets and city of Los Angeles. And with it, in the blink of an eye, the 'vessel', otherwise known as Spike or 'William the Bloody' was cast back through the ages.


	2. Chapter One: Welcome to WackyLand!

Chapter Two

Chirping - mindless, rhythmic and utterly inane - chirping.

This is all the world to him.

Yet as eyelashes flutter and falter, as sunlight gently peels them back, this cacophony of nuance unfolds into something much more pragmatic and tangible.

Dirt.

Dirt and a whole mesh of forest strewn before his very eyes. He hadn't known what had hit him when he'd felt his body start to levitate. Didn't question much nor have the ability to - when he felt the earth below him grazing past. Yet just before he broached the giant, gaping bloody HOLEin the sky, he did have a moment's reverie.

Dear God, Blue... whatever you've done now, I want no part of. Yet, it was not his will that was being carried out.

It was the will of a God. One whom had found itself wanting a greater result to their previous scenario then which had been afforded to her.

So, as is usually the case with a vengeful God, action was taken. Punishment appropriately dealt forward. Against the Powers-That-Be-Damned. The PTB had seen fit to unravel the only things which held Illyria's rapture. To wind them backwards and then pitch them into the ether as discarded toys. They felt as if they were the manipulators of the current, however what they had failed to realize is that a God does not float along the shoreline when it comes to talk of time and earth. No, much more pro-active then that, Illyria had not yielded this result. She did not sit idly by and allow this to take form. It wouldn't have been proper for a God.

So she had taken Spike's body instead and done some 'manipulating' of her own - which to no end, Spike could sense.

Especially as he finally made his way to his feet, unsteadily. Through the forest before him he could hear the Essenes of life. He didn't know what that last bit of bleedin' mojo had done, yet it was something heady and powerful. The smell of the world, even layered in death, had assaulted his enhanced senses and every last bit of him knew beyond the pale - what Illyria had done had wrecked some carnage. Only in what manner, he wasn't privy to just yet.

However, he couldn't deny the sensations he suddenly was made aware of. The languid, rolling electric 'buzz' that seemed to permeate his entire being. It seemed to encompass him entirely. In fact, it had quite the visible effect. Tiny sparks seemed to be spreading through him and leaping minutely off of his limbs only to leave off ward to other parts of his anatomy.

"This is..." His cockney accent stirred, as his stray hand rolled over the other, the electricity not painful in the slightest. "... new."

With that realization, he could only assume that this was some sort of residual effect of the 'travel' he'd just undertaken. Only to where, he didn't know. With that, he started shuffling his way forward, into the forest. Not much of a choice as all around him he'd found the brush his only escape. It had been but a small clearing where he'd ended up - scorched earth also marking his arrival. A small indentation in the ground was also left, but he didn't pay it any notice. So as he made his way through the forest he deftly puffed off a cigarette retrieved from his 'duster.'

Flicking the ashes off into the wind, he thought for a moment before making a decision.

Quickly shifting his 'game-face' on, he allowed the greater aspects of his demon to emerge. With it came greater vision, greater hearing. Both abilities he would need now if he were to do anything but get lost within a damnable bleedin' forest. It wouldn't be the most 'polite' way to appear to any natives he'd find, but he'd have to make due for the moment. However, as his demon emerged, he'd felt a twinge of pain suddenly. He realized with a certain aptitude that his usually enhanced abilities weren't quite what they normally were.

"Bloody hell!" He shouted, as his vision slammed into him, as if the entire world had been placed under a microscope and been cranked up to full magnitude. The only thing he could see was a giant blotch of green!

At that, he began to inundate the breathing he didn't need, practicing a relief technique he'd learned from a hypnotherapist, back in Prague. Good times and the man in question a good fellow - up until Drusilla had torn out his neck and offered it to him as a midnight snack. To his point though, the chap had taught them when one is in sudden pain - he need only reevaluate his surroundings.

Which is precisely what happened. As if someone was cranking back through binoculars his vision had suddenly become a hundred-fold. With great surprise, Spike realized that giant blotch of green had actually been the scaly tendrils from a lizard, yet as he slowly relaxed his vision, the lizard itself came into focus. As did the rock it stood on as he relaxed very gently further. With every breath, the scope of his vision heightened.

"...sweet mother Mary...." The Brit breathed out, shock on his face. For as he had witnessed the scale of a lizard, on a rock, he slowly began to unwind the scenario he was witnessing - it became the cohesion of rocks near the base of the river, next.

Then it became the sign, oddly wooden and in a language Spike himself didn't understand, that neatly stood nearly twenty feet away from the collection of rocks.. Morphing even further as he greater relaxed - it became apparent that something was horribly wrong with what he was seeing, as the world began to speed backwards towards him. It took nearly ten minutes for him to realize, as he relaxed, that what he had seen, was a lizard, sitting on a rock that was to his best estimate - at least five miles away.

That sudden thought struck a chord in him. His vision wasn't nearly 'heightened' anymore - it was goddamn uncanny!

"Oh, we've got something to discuss, you and I, Blue... oh yes, we do..." He began to chant, nearly as a mantra, as he strode forward, following his previous 'line of sight.'

He began to walk quickly, making his way through the forest, until he'd found himself at the sign work. Finally, with a struggle, he'd found himself at the post - tracing his hands along the strange symbols, which now with a greater presence of mind, he recognized as Latin. A gift of knowledge burned into his brain more then a century ago from his schooling. It had been a pre-requisite those days.

Now all the frilly and haphazard children of this era had to do was sit on their bum and plainly read whatever concoction of useless dribble and horrendous history that was placed before them. Really, no class at all, these days.

Shaking himself from the thought as well as from the post, he shrugged. Being able to recognize a language and actually interpret it, were two entirely different things altogether. So, beholden to himself, he began to walk away, yet a familiar lizard found itself an obstruction before him. He also noticed a littering of stones that carved out a walkway through a bend in the mount he'd noticed nearby.

"Familiar place, is it? Watering 'ole, my friend?" Spike stated, bending down to scoop up the little guy. "Guess it's just you, me... and wherever the hell this road takes us." At that, Spike grinned quietly under his breath.

By the graces, he was standing there, talking to a lizard in a forest. The day couldn't possibly become any stranger. Dead enemies, portals and his own absurd need to talk with animals - oh, not forgetting the fact, that nearly everyone he knew was gone and he knew not where he was.

That wooden sign, which just might have been made of papyrus he only now suddenly reflects, might as well have stated, 'Welcome to Wacky Land."

It would have been appropriate.

-------------------------------------

Having ditched his green-tinted friend earlier, Spike stood alone, thoughts muddled and his brain not really understanding what his eyes were seeing. Having made sure enough to check himself, Spike suddenly started patting his duster for smokes, with shaky hands.

'... I'd say it but it's over said." He quietly intoned to himself, fumbling for the cigarette. "Oh, to hell with it, BLEEDIN' Hell! Oh Bloody Hell!"

He shook his head, still not satisfied with himself. "...Bloody hell, an eviscerated Hell, a hit-me-baby Hell, Hell, Hell!" At that, Spike began to chuckle.

Only Illyria - only she would have done this. Only she could have been satisfied with THIS result. She would have made damnably sure that what she did had a purpose and now, standing there smoking his cigarette for all the world, Spike knew what she'd done.

A village stood before him, yet that wasn't entirely surprising. The fact that the patronage all wore togas, head crests and sandals, disturbed him further. Not to mention the myriad of shops along a dirt strip, whose merchants and vendors shouted out with high glee the worth of their wares. Horses, drawn by cart, meandered their way through the town, underneath a wooden archway with Latin written upon it, obviously a town sign. Having been just coming 'round the bend',

Spike had been fairly certain no one had seen him - he was hopeful to keep it that way to, for the moment.

He had to make sure of what were his very disturbing idea, of what had transpired. Of what she had done to him. To do that, though... he knew without a shadow of a doubt, if he walked into 'townsquare' with bleached blonde hair, leather clothes and a swagger - he'd be treated as a leper. However, without a change of clothes packed for this very unfortunate trip, he decided to hell with vanity.

Marching forward, he found himself whimsically amused as two guards, complete with bronze armor and spears, which really were nothing more then six-feet long stakes, suddenly snapped to attention, blocking his path, crossing said spears.

"Who do you herald?" The first guard, a squat yet compact man with a tan completion matching his colleague, shouted.

Oh bloody... oh, hmmm... the Caesar shindig, here? Hmm, might as well give it a try...

At that, Spike himself straightened, shouting outward, "Hmmm, yea... about that, you two blokes wouldn't know where the nearest freeway is, would you?"

Probably not the correct thing to say - especially considering he'd stated it in pure Englishman's English.

The two guards exchanged a glance at that, speaking to each other in their native tongue for a moment.

"Who do you herald?" The question came again, the speaker looking more anxious.

This is growing tiring. Oh, sod it!

"I herald, 'he who weareth no pants!'" Spike responded smugly, puffing his cigarette.

Probably not the right answer.

As one, the two guards took point. They began to proceed forward, stalking towards Spike.

As Spike rolled his neck, he cracked his fingers. "Alright, boys... let's get this show on the road!"

The first guard of the pair, a taller, obviously much more muscular of the duo, surged forward with his spear. Not himself with it, however as he simply lunged it with marksman's accuracy at the 'intruder.'

"Oh, Bloody.... BALLS!!??" Spike looked down and noticed it sticking out of his stomach, the massive ended wood poking somewhere around his smaller intestine. The blow would have normally left him much more worse for the wear yet with a surge of adrenaline, he took two hands and snapped the spear from his stomach, breaking it over his knee.

The two guards grew wide-eyed, beginning to speak in that strange tongue of theirs. At this, they were obviously calling behind their shoulders for reinforcements. One had even begun to blow into a large horn, blaring out for miles, their location.

Need to think fast... Spike thought, as he decided to hell with niceties.

He ran forward, leaping from his feet in a sort of double clothesline. He quickly wrapped the horn around his fist, and shrugging for a moment, quickly surged forward and slammed his wrapped fist into the taller guard's chin in a vicious uppercut.

Well, normally vicious, for Spike, anyways. No, what actually happened, is something which surprised the absolute hell out of this new enemy, out of the wide array of onlookers he had gathered from the market but most importantly of all - of Spike.

What Spike had meant to be a pulled-punch regardless, only meant to debilitated his enemy, had sent the man flying nearly twenty feet into the air, sailing through and smashing to bits, what he could only assume was the 'wastehouse' of the village.

"....bollocks." At his new found strength, Spike nearly shook his head. His warrior's heart suddenly shouted out for him to confront the entirety of this village in a veritable feast of violence. Of fist and fang - yet with his powers increased in such a manner - his soul waned deeply and already regretted the violence he'd inflicted. So with that heavy heart, he quickly looked for an escape route.

Checking to gauge his new powers, Spike jumped as high as he could from the ground, hoping to catch onto a tree nearby and start scaling the mountain off the beaten path. Yet when even this simple act had been performed, even he was caught unawares when he suddenly skyrocketed several hundred feet into the air, barreling forward and actually, atop the small mount.

"Well, that works." He said sarcastically as he could see down below, the entire village was scrambling, guards running around frantically with many villagers pointing skyward, close to him.

With a shrug, he suddenly turned tail from the crest and began to scale back downwards, hoping to make his way back to the clearing he'd originally found himself in - hoping to have a moment to think - although, not really looking forward to it.

--------------------------------------------------

Night had fallen and the terrain had been blanketed comfortably by it - yet not the vampire in it's midst.

She's done it, she sent me into some type of alternate plain. Or planet or hell, or... yet why? Why do that and also give me the 'pick me up.?' Doesn't make any bleedin' sense. Blue's playing some type of game here and I doubt it's with a full deck.

At that, Spike poked at the fire he'd made, making sure it didn't shrivel. Didn't need it for warmth or food, more so that he could just see through the clearing and make sure no type of nasties gave him a jolt while he'd slept. He didn't want any surprises tonight.

It was obvious by what Illyria had said that she'd at least had some inkling of what she'd done to him, yet he only now was finding out what that meant. She was just as upset as he was at finding out that all their comrades had died in a violent and horrible way in which they never deserved. There was no closure in that, none that he could see in the slightest. No, what had befallen Angel or Charlie, even the likes of Wesley and the 'death without death' that Lorne had succumb to - there's no diatribe there. No way of bandaging that up nicely and presenting it to someone and saying, they fought the good fight.

Except they hadn't, they'd waged a meaningless war with no benefit afterwards. There would always be a Senior Partners - always some inevitable version of Wolfram and Hart - yet what that meant was that Evil was eternal ever so much as the light. To which parameter he fell under, Spike still couldn't claim to know. Didn't know on which side of the divide he himself fell upon.

He fought once again against the twinge of a headache he'd had since finding himself in this place - it was a constant, throbbing pain to which he'd never experienced.

Shaken from his reverie, Spike heard a sudden and slick sound - the sound he knew through years of proactive, was the sound of blade removed from it's sheath.

Closing his eyes for a moment, Spike merely nodded.

"If you're going to bloody well doddle along out there, why don't you come ever nearest the fire, soeth that I might play with ye." Spike said, steel and cold injected into his voice, his facing lean over the fire, the light playing along the edges of his demonic mask, eyes bright golden as they reflected the flame.

With that, he heard boots snapping twigs as a form made it's way obvious in the clearing.

The form of a cold-faced, hardened lean man, with muscles corded and complex. A broach around his neck glimmered vibrantly as he pointed a sword towards Spike, his voice lilted yet full of gravel and mirth as he spoke plainly in French, a language which Spike understood all too well.

"Je suis Methos, capitaine-Garde de Caesar' ; forces personnelles de s. Il peut y avoir seulement d'un et d mon, je sais pas du you' de acc l ration ; le VE pris, mais l'I' ; le ll vous a mis vers le bas comme le chien infest que vous tes!"

(I am Methos, captain-Guard of Caesar's personal forces. There can be only one and demon, I know not of the quickening you've taken, but I'll put you down like the infested dog you are!) 


	3. Lightning Charged Blood

"Hmph. A bloody Frenchman?" The words were laced with gritty disbelief.

As Spike's voice trailed off, he quickly found the point of the sword at the hollow of his throat.

"Bouffon." (Buffoon)

Methos scoffed, his stance and gesture seemingly lax but betraying the obvious skill he used with the blade.

Legs wide apart, Spike's eyes caught rflickers of blinking orange in the distance of the treeline.

"Ah, now..." Methos spoke, his own eyes perusing Spike's, looking for a crack in his defenses. "Don't worry about them. You know the rules - no interference. We'll take this elsewhere, shall we?" His words quickly transitioned into lilted English.

"Oh, the plot thickens. You're definately speaking MY language, mate." At this, SPike's demon receded and his brow and fang with it. He stood and followed Methos into a clearing some ways away.

Once they had found themselves sufficiently protected enough to have some privacy, Methos turned to him, shoving him forward.

"Draw your blade and tell me your name."

Turning around quickly, Spike held up his hands.

"Unless I'm going to turn into that bleedin' git from the Terminator movies, I don't have a bloody blade, you idiot."

Methos at that moment studied him thoroughly.

"Are you new at this? You have no blade? How were you to expect to defend yourself, to play the Game? Ay, Cherie..." Methos trailed off, his brow furrowed.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Methos tosses his own sword at Spike, leaving himself unarmed.

"Let it never be said I'm one without virtue. I give you the benefit of an advantage only because of your own ignorance." At that, Methos's stance stuck to the ground.

He waved Spike onward as if to attack him.

Looking at the sword for a moment as if it were some strange thing, Spike pondered the words.

"Defend myself? A Game? Who baked your brisket, Frenchie?" Spike asked, genuinely confused.

Shaking his head once more, Methos turned to the woods, again seeing flickers of orange.

"Oh, come off it now! Die like a man why don't you? This is sad, this new crop of you that seem to creep into the world as if cockroaches."

"Really, now?" Spike's voice intoned.

With a wave of his hand, Methos cuts Spike off.

"That's it! I don't have time for this foolishness. Give me your name so that I might take your head."

Catching his attentioned more fervently because he faced the same peril as nearly everything else: no head, no life.

"The name's Spike and I'll be damned if you take MY head. Let's give this a go then, shall we?"

At that, Spike advanced, as if lightning. His hand held the sword firmly inplace and bashed hilt to nose. Methos went down with a solid smack but not quite before jabbing out his left leg in a well designed blow to Spike's ankle.

As Spike dropped, Methos quickly caught him in a judo-toss, heaving the vampire through the air. Usually a more impactful maneuver but Methos was disturbed to find Spike land on his feet.

It was as if he was in combat with a deadly panther.

"My god... you move so fast..." Methos commented, barely having enough time to dodge out of the way of Spike's fist. He caught Spike by the elbow and quickly broke it.

"Aggh..." Spike groaned in pain, himself now dodging offensive maneuvers from the Immortal. The man was fast, much faster then any human he'd ever encountered. Hi moves were fluid and it was obvious to him that the man was an experienced warrior.

The fight had to come to a close though and Spike knew it.

"I've had enough of this. You..." He said, shoving Methos away. "You're dead." And with that, he moved as if a blur, his fangs morphing into view and piercing the throat of Methos.

"Aghhh!" Methos groaned but was caught up as Spike began to drain the life from him.

And the moment fang hit artery, Spike knew a new world of bliss and terror.

It was pure euphoria; every last drop of it. Better then any blood he'd ever tasted- hell, even better then a Slayer, which Spike thought wasn't possible.

But now he knew, and he knew it so well.

And then the images came. The horrible, bloody violence and murder. Assaulting him from everywhere at once, caging him in and refusing him escape.

Time stood still and rushed over him, as if a tsunami had broken the veil of reality. And in this moment, Spike became aware.

Aware of it all, through Methos. His adventures as 'Death.' His time with Christ, his life and many of the more powerful memories the man had. He knew it all, in an instant.

Spike now knew about Immortals, about the 'Game', and about Methos.

Enough to know he was too important to die. Too ancient and sacred.

And so, with barest of hopes, Spike's fangs retracted, his chin dribbling with blood as Methos lay prone on the groud on the edge of blacking out.

"My god, my god... you're Immortal." Spike's stunned eyes betrayed him. He was in awe of Methos.

"...yes, yes I am. And... so are you, Demon. For a little while..." Methos said before his frame slackened and he passed out.

Spike watched all his wounds, even his broken arm, heal instantly. Now vampires healed rapidly but this was far beyond that. Blue sparks of electricity combined beyond that and he felt what can only be described as a 'rush.' As if he was high on methamphetimines.

And a good thing he was, 'cuz it was time to move.

"Halt!" The soldiers from before had found their location and Spike eyed soldiers running downward from a hillside. He had no options.

He spied Methos and quickly tosses him over shoulder.

"Well, mate - life just got a little more interesting for us both. Bloody Hell. Bloody, bloody hell."


End file.
